Case of Lucy Bending (11 page)

"And boys?"

"Many, but no one in particular."

"Any crushes? On special teachers or friends?"

"No, no crushes that I'm aware of."

"Does Lucy keep a diary?"

"My goodness, what an odd question. No, not to my knowledge."

He noted that "my goodness." Lucy had used the same phrase in her interview. But it was hardly unusual. Girls frequently mimicked their mothers' speech patterns, just as boys did their fathers'. But under the circumstances, "my goodness" seemed particularly inapt.

"Has Lucy ever used language that, ah, you felt was not appropriate?''

"Dirty words, you mean? No, Lucy has been taught better than that."

"Never a 'damn'? Never a 'hell'?"

"Oh, perhaps. Once or twice. But not frequently."

"And never anything but 'damn' or 'hell'?"

Grace Bending blushed. "Once she said, 'Shit.' But only once."

"Uh-huh. But not sexually oriented obscenities?"

"No. Never."

"Mrs. Bending, how would you characterize Lucy's relations with her brothers?"

"Well . . . they get along. Rather well, as a matter of fact. Sometimes there's squabbling, but that's to be expected."

"Of course."

"And sometimes the three of them gang up against my husband and me, but it's never been anything serious."

"Could you give me an example?"
⁴⁴
Oh, they might object to a TV program we want to watch or a movie we want to see. But generally, there's very little unpleasantness. All my children are well-mannered."

"You are fortunate."

"I thought so."

"But you don't now?"

"It's this thing with Lucy. It has me very upset."

Her answer angered him, though he was careful not to show it. He guessed her concern for her daughter's behavior might be rooted in how that conduct affected
her.

He wanted, if not to humble her, to remind her of her humanity.

"Mrs. Bending," he said softly, "my questions about Lucy have been preliminary probing. In the sessions to come—with her, you, your husband, Lucy's brothers—we'll try to dig a little deeper. But for the moment, let me switch gears here and talk to you about
you."

"If you wish."

"You're an intelligent woman, and I know you understand that whatever I may ask you is for one reason only: to help resolve Lucy's problem."

"I know that, doctor."

"Good. Mrs. Bending, how would you characterize your marriage—as happy, average, or unhappy?"

"Oh, happy. I am very happy. I don't mean it's perfect. What marriage is? But I'd say that, all in all, it's a happy marriage."

"No serious disagreements, arguments, or conflicts that might affect Lucy?"

"No. None."

"You and your husband have been married—how many years?"

"Fourteen. Fifteen in December."

"The first marriage for both of you?"

"For me. My husband was married previously. Once."

"And you have lived in your present home for how many years?"

"Almost ten. We came to Florida ten years ago."

"You and your husband have your own bedroom, of course?"

"Of course."

"Double bed or twin beds?" "Doctor, I don't see what—"

"Please answer my question," he said sternly.

She was cowed. "Twin beds."

"The children's bedrooms are on the same floor?"

"Yes."

"Each child has his or her own room?"

"Yes."

"Which child has the bedroom closest to yours?"

"Lucy. Then Harry. He's my youngest boy. Wayne's bedroom is at the end of the hall."

"Each has an individual bathroom?"

"Lucy has her own. Harry and Wayne share a bathroom. But there's another across the hall, connected with the guest room. It can be used in case of, uh, emergency."

"A large home."

"It's a beautiful home!"

He suspected it would be an immaculate home. Silver polished. Ashtrays dusted. Rugs perpetually vacuumed. She would watch the television commercials intently and read the family service magazines. No soap spots on the glassware. No odors in the bathrooms. She would be proud of the gleam on her kitchen floor.

He was tempted to ask how many times a day she bathed.

Instead, he said: "Let me see . . . you are three years older than your husband?"

"That's correct."

⁴
'How did you meet?''

"We were introduced by mutual friends."

"But you didn't grow up together? Not childhood sweethearts?"

"Oh no. Nothing like that."

"Lucy mentioned a Sunday School teacher. She attends regularly?"

"Yes. She and Harry."

"Do you attend church regularly?"

"Yes."

"Your husband?"

"No. He plays golf."

"And your older son?"

"Wayne? No, he no longer attends church regularly."

"Is—or was this a matter of contention between you and your husband—his refusal to attend church? And Wayne's absence?"

"Not contention exactly. We discussed it at length. Several times. Then I realized it was hopeless trying to force my beliefs on my husband and older son. So I let them go their own way."

Her tone of self-abnegation amused him. He was beginning to understand this woman. He thought she might have a strong martyr complex. He pitied her husband.

"Mrs. Bending, how would you characterize your sexual relations with your husband?"

"I don't understand what you mean, doctor."

"Would you say they are satisfactory? Ecstatic? Unsatisfactory? Repellent to you?"

"Satisfactory," she said primly. "My physical relations with my husband are satisfactory."

"You are both relatively young, apparently healthy and vigorous—how often do you have intercourse?"

"Doctor, is this absolutely necessary?"

"Mrs. Bending, I am fishing, I admit it. I am trying to amass as much information as I can, hoping that somewhere I may find a clue to Lucy's behavior. I would not be doing my job if I didn't ask, and you might be lessening our chances of success if you refused to answer."

"Well ... all right then. But I find all this very embarrassing and—and distasteful."

"I appreciate that. But your cooperation is essential."

"Very well."

"How often do you and your husband have sexual intercourse? Once a week?"

"Less."

"Once a month?"

"Perhaps. It depends ..."

He wanted to ask: "Depends on what?" She did not strike him as a woman who sold her favors, in one way or another, to her husband or other men. She was too asexual for that. But, he admitted, she might surprise him.

He thought her physically attractive. Breasts, hips, thighs— they were all there, swaddled in garments. But they were all belied by her spiky aloofness. She seemed determined to deny passion. Because it did not exist, he wondered—or had it been drained?

"How would you characterize your husband, Mrs. Bending? Affectionate? Loving? Passionate? Or cold, withdrawn, unfeeling?''

"Well, my goodness, he can be all those things at different times. He's human, you know."

"Of course. But which of those adjectives would you select as describing his true nature?"

"Would you repeat them again, please, doctor."

"Affectionate? Loving? Passionate? Or cold, withdrawn, unfeeling?"

"I'd say my husband is an affectionate man."

"A good husband and father?"

"Yes."

"A real family man?"

"Ah ... not exactly."

"Is your husband faithful to you?"

"I think you better ask him that, doctor."

"Are you faithful to him?"

"Always! Forever! Since the day we met! I have never played around."

"I see. One final question, Mrs. Bending ... It is of a particularly intimate nature, and if you don't wish to answer at this time, I can well understand your reticence. When you have intercourse with your husband, do you achieve orgasm?"

"Uh ... I think so."

"Thank you. And now I see our time is up . . ."

PART II

Luther Empt wanted to hold the meeting in the conference room of William Holloway's bank, but Bill said he did not feel that would be prudent.

Later, Empt said disgustedly to Turk Bending:
"Prudent,
for God's sake! Here we're talking about a million-dollar deal to process porn, and this guy is talking prudence! If it wasn't for that bimbo he's married to, I'd figure him for a nelly."

Bending, prudently, did not reply.

So Empt rented a suite at the Hibiscus Motel on Federal Highway. He arrived early, with bottles, and ordered up extra glasses, mixers, and plenty of ice. The meeting was scheduled for 9:00
P.M
. Luther hoped it would be over by midnight at the latest.

Bending and Holloway drove over in the latter's Mercedes saloon. They didn't talk much during the trip. Bending was figuring what investments he would have to liquidate to come up with a quarter of a million. William Jasper Holloway was wondering what the hell he was doing there.

He had been prepared to give Luther Empt's proposition a vacant, meandering rejection—more a banker's shilly-shallying than a forthright "No!" On paper, the proposal looked good. But Holloway simply didn't want to complicate his life with new endeavors.

Besides, he told his wife, they had sufficient money for their needs, now and for the foreseeable future. That statement enraged her and she went to work on him.

She listed their current expenses, which were not inconsiderable. She reminded him that the children would require college educations—and who knew what that might cost by the time they were ready? She spoke darkly of the possibility and financial drain of catastrophic illness.

When she began to talk like that, he knew he was defeated;

she would have her way. Her vigor and resolve would wear him down. She would never give up. And she had a hundred ways of making his life a hell.

When he entered the motel suite Luther had rented, all of Holloway's objections to this enterprise were revived.

Later, Ronald Bending said that it reminded him of Van Gogh's "The Night Cafe." There were the same ugly and evil colors: dirty yellows and sickly greens, washed with acid. Dead reds. Lights haloed: a miasma swirling in that dread room.

Even the shadows were faded. And over all, a hopeless stillness, a lonely quiet that had its own smell: sweet and piercing. It was, Holloway decided when he saw it, a room to vanquish hope. He headed immediately for the bottles and poured himself a heavy vodka.

Their guests arrived shortly after nine o'clock. Introductions were made, everyone was seated and served with drinks, Turk Bending acting as bartender. They chatted idly a few moments, about the weather, pro football, the stock market.

Then Luther Empt got down to business. He spoke loudly, rapidly, in his harsh city voice. The two visitors listened intently, not revealing by gesture, movement, or expression, their reactions to Empt's proposals.

Rocco Santangelo was the taller of the two. He was lofty, whip-thin, beautifully shaved, and wearing a navy blue suit of raw silk. No jewelry, but shirt, tie, and pocket handkerchief were monogrammed. He was obviously no stranger to facials and manicures. \

Jimmy (not James, but Jimmy) Stone was shorter, bulkier. He wore a somewhat baggy three-piece suit of slate gray gabardine. His bullet head was topped with a brush of blond hair, stiff as stubble. He didn't have Santangelo's polish, but he had a craggy presence, sitting motionless with clumpy hands gripping thick knees.

William Holloway found the two men disturbing. It was their closed faces, the deadness of their stares. He supposed they were men with friends, families, loves. But those empty eyes gave nothing back.

Empt started by saying that the three of them were prepared to contribute $750,000 to a new corporation. He hoped their visitors were still willing to advance a quarter-of-a-million-dollar loan to the project. At ten percent interest.

Santangelo said the loan was available immediately. And should overruns or unexpected expenses require it, 250 additional jacks would be available at the same interest rate. "Jacks" was the word he used.